


One Million Oysters

by greenstuff



Series: I know not everything is possible [4]
Category: Burnt (2015)
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-05 21:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17926271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenstuff/pseuds/greenstuff
Summary: Penance doesn't come with friends or security, just sharp knives and sharp shells and too many nights spent thinking about Paris.





	1. Penance

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: You guys are the best! Thanks for being so kind as I fling myself back into this little universe. I hope you are having as much fun reading as I am writing.  
> I’m posting part one with part two only about 1/3 written so I no longer have the option to go back and change it and because I feel horrible for how I left our dear idiots last instalment.  
> There are a lot of emails in this work. For the sake of readability I have stolen some stylistic elements from Daniel Glattauer and gone with a rough time-lapsed-since-the-last-email chronology. I’ll leave the email subjects to your imagination (I half imagine everything is a reply to Adam's first email so it's just "Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Sorry" at this point).

Tony’s flight is an hour and thirty minutes late and he barely has time to drop his bag with the front desk at the Langham before taking the elevator to the top floor to meet his father. In the elevator he leans against the back wall, ignoring the three other patrons who step on with him and taps out a quick email to Adam on his phone, only half paying attention as the floors tick by and people get out at their floors. He can still barely believe that he left a naked, sleeping Adam Jones to come to a board meeting. This better be every bit as fucking important as his father made it out to be on the phone two days ago.

“You’re late.” Alberto Balerdi steps into the elevator before the doors had even fully opened and presses three, sending them back down in the direction of the board room. “Didn’t I tell you how important this is?”

Tony takes a deep breath and hit send on his email to Adam before shoving his phone into his pocket. “Yes, but sadly I don’t control the weather.” 

“Yes, well,” Alberto pats Tony stiffly on the shoulder. “You’re here now. We don’t have time to discuss before the meeting, but we will have lunch afterward, yes?”

Tony nods. “Of course, Papa. Kaitlin knows to tell Gerard all your favourites.” 

Alberto smiles a bit at that. “Good. We will have much to discuss.” 

Before Tony can voice any of the questions crowding his brain, the elevator stops. Tony falls in step behind his father, keeping his peace. There will be time over lunch for explanations.  

The Balerdi Group’s board members haven’t changed since Tony was thirteen which means all of them are grey haired and conservative and look at Tony like he’s there on a bring your son to work outing from grammar school. He he settles in to a seat at his father’s right hand, trying not to notice the condescending smiles cast his direction, and braces for a long morning. He hopes Adam’s flight is more fun than this meeting promises to be. 

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice.” Alberto pitches his voice for a room twice the size of the one they’re in. It works. The board members settle into their seats and all side conversations stop. When the room is so silent you could hear a pin drop, Antonio continues. “I know you all have other business to get back to so I will keep this short: I am taking a leave of absence and appointing my son Tony in my place.”

There is a moment of deafening silence as Tony’ world tilts on its axis and then the room explodes in the outraged exclamations of a half dozen sexagenarians crying out in protest. Tony knows he should probably step in, take the opportunity to demonstrate leadership of something like that, but his ears are filled with static and it’s all he can do not to walk out of the room. 

The meeting isn’t short. It lasts nearly two hours as Antonio answers every one of the board’s complaints with variations of “I own 51% of the Balerdi Group, so it doesn’t really matter what you want” and “No, I won’t justify my decisions to someone who owns less than 10% of the company I built from the ground up.”

Eventually the Board caves as they always do, loud protests fading to mutinous looks in Tony’s direction. 

When the board finally files out in sullen silence, Alberto sags in his seat. He suddenly looks every one of his 67 years and Tony feels a rush of affection for him. He doesn’t understand what just happened, but the man half slumped at the head of the table has never looked so much like a father and so little like a CEO. 

They sit for several moments in silence. Tony doesn’t know where to begin asking, and Alberto seems to be gathering up his energy for what comes next. Eventually he rises, “Let’s go see what that chef of yours can cook up. I could use some fortification before I deal with the two dozen emails I’m sure are already pinging into my inbox.” 

They make their way to the restaurant and settle into their usual table along the back wall. Tony like to sit where he can see the whole dining room and Alberto has always been a booth man so it suits them both. Kaitlin gives him a wave and then disappears into the kitchen. Tony knows it won’t be long before she returns with a bottle of Shiraz (his father’s favourite) and the soup course.  

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” Tony asks, turning his full attention to his father. “It’s been rather a strange morning and I’m a bit old to be playing guessing games.” 

Alberto pats Tony’s arm placatingly. “Let’s let that new girl of yours bring us our starters, hmm. Everything is so much more pleasant accompanied by a nice bowl of soup.” 

Tony rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, there would be no point anyway. Their soup course and wine arrive in record time. Tony stirs more than eats his soup waiting for his father to speak.  

“I had a follow up with Dr. James Monday.” Alberto begins at last. “It’s...” he focuses on his wine glass, “I have cancer. It’s serious. Stage three mesothelioma. He wants to start radiation Friday.”

It makes sense suddenly - the sudden phone call the day before Jean Luc’s funeral asking him to come home on the first possible plane for an emergency board meeting. Tony feels like an idiot for not somehow anticipating this. Somehow, he thinks, he should have known that Alberto was sick. Wasn’t there some kind of intuition families were supposed to have? 

In the vacuum left by Tony’s inability to reply, Alberto continued. “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time before I had to tell the board, but I won’t be in any state to run the company while I’m in treatment.”

“Of course,” Tony says on autopilot. “Anything you need, Papa.” 

Alberto smiles at him in a way Tony hasn’t seen in years, his expression something like pride. “I always meant to turn it over to you.  I was hoping not to burden you so young. I’m a foolish old man, I know, but I hoped you would settle down first. Maybe get married, have a child or three and experience some of the joys your mother and I had before you lost yourself to the business.” 

Tony felt suddenly chilled to the core. Was that what his father expected? For Tony to outgrow his foolish, childish homosexuality and settle into a proper life with a wife and three perfect little hetero-Italian babies? He has to remind himself that Alberto is sick, that the looming spectre of death makes people say asinine things all the time. It’s the only thing that keeps him in his seat. 

“Papa, you know I’m—”

Alberto waves a hand dismissively as he interrupts with: “Gay, yes. I’m sick, not addled. There is more than one way to make a family, Anthony.” 

Tony tries to picture Adam Jones changing a nappy and then shakes himself out of it. He needs to stop thinking he can end up with Adam Jones before he really does waste his entire adult life pining for a man who will never really want him back. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks as much to stop his brain from wandering to dangerous places as to try and pry more information from his father – a battle he already knows he will lose. 

“No, Anthony. The Harley Street clinic will take excellent care of me. You just focus on not letting the board get to you too much and you will be fine.” 

The rest of their lunch is peppered by small talk about the weather and the new restaurant opening three blocks away and Tony’s only cousin Eliana who is pregnant with her fourth child in six years. It would be pleasant, if it weren’t for the terrible weight of all the things they don’t discuss pressing down on Tony’s shoulders. 

\---

Adam finds himself at his usual dingy internet café again two days after Paris. He’s in the doorway before he remembers Tony wants nothing to do with him. He turns away, stuffing his hands in his pockets against a sudden cold, hollow feeling. There’s no use fighting it. Tony knows how Adam feels. He doesn’t think he could have been clearer. If Tony doesn’t want him, Adam won’t torture himself. 

Life returns to normal. Adam returns to the same restaurant he was working at when Tony called to tell him Jean Luc was dying. Penance doesn't come with friends or security, just sharp knives and sharp shells and too many nights spent thinking about Paris. Adam still attends meetings. But apart from Suzette he doesn't make friends and there are days when he thinks he could disappear and no one would notice. And then there are the days when he doesn't care that no one would notice. Those days are the worst. 

It's almost exactly a month (25,756 oysters) before he finds himself back in the dingy Internet café. He’s been at his current job long enough his boss is starting to notice him which means it’s time to move on. Staying more than three months at one place tends to lead people to start thinking they know him, and Adam prefers to be anonymous. He sends off his resume to a few postings and then clicks on his inbox out of habit. There are twelve new messages: nine are from Tony.

Adam stares at the screen for a full minute, not quite believing his eyes. The oldest is from the day Adam left Paris, the others span the month since then. Heart in his throat, Adam clicks to open the first one.  

> You’re somewhere over the Atlantic right now. London is damp and cold, and I find myself wishing I had just stayed in that cozy Paris hotel room.
> 
> I have never been to New Orleans. I imagine it like Paris on Bastille day (with fewer soldiers and more beads) year-round only every restaurant is serving oysters. It’s possible I’ve seen too many films. I can’t quite picture you there.
> 
> Anyway, I didn’t have anything particular to say. Travel safely my friend. Yours, Tony

He reads it twice before clicking next. He doesn’t know what to think. Can’t quite believe Tony emailed so soon or so often or… at all really. But the evidence is on the screen in front of him, one email after another, some of them friendly and full of news, others shorter and more serious.  

 _Sent three days after the first_  

> Reece is opening a new restaurant in London. Did you know he was moving here? He’s holding an opening gala in a week and a half and somehow, I rated an invitation. I thought I should go, at least to check out the competition.
> 
> The Langham is successful enough. It’s not the old days, but the hotel’s occupancy is holding steady and with it, the restaurant clientele. I hired a new maître d’hôtel so I have more time to manage the business. Father is taking a step away and I can’t afford to spend all my time in the restaurant. I can’t say this is what I thought I would be doing with my life, but Kaitlin seems competent and she’s already put the fear of God in the servers. I think the restaurant is in the best hands possible. At least the front of house. My chef is no Adam Jones.
> 
> Yours, Tony 

_Two days later_  

> Anne Marie is looking for an address for you. I gave her your email, but declined to pass along your phone number. I was frankly surprised she didn’t have at least that. I hope you don’t mind me passing yours along. I think it had something to do with Jean Luc’s will.
> 
> I can’t believe he’s been dead for a fortnight. It doesn’t seem real.
> 
> I hope you are well. I’ve had most of a bottle of Pinot so I don’t mind saying: I would be better if there was a message from you in my inbox. 

_Five days later_

> Adam, I know your plane didn’t crash into the sea: that would have made the news. I hope your silence isn’t portent of some less international newsworthy disaster. I miss you.  Tony 

_Three days later_

> You would hate Reece’s restaurant. It’s exactly the kind of show over substance design you always made fun of. His investor is a nervous little man with friends in high places who seems more interested in the prestige of a Michelin starred chef than a Michelin star quality menu. The food is good, but nothing I haven’t seen before.
> 
> I took Kaitlin as my plus one. She’s the new Maître d’ I told you about a week ago. I thought it would be good for her to brush shoulders with investors and chefs at that level. I did not account for Reece being suddenly more charming than usual. I still can’t decide if he’s trying to sleep with her or steal her for the restaurant. It seems horribly unfair if he does. I’ve only just gotten used to letting her actually run things.  

_Two days later_

> Kaitlin called Reece “Monty” this morning. She smiles every time she mentions him – and she mentions him a lot. If they’re not sleeping together, they will be soon.
> 
> It makes me feel incredibly old and alone.
> 
> Wistfully yours, Tony

_Three days later_

> I should have woken you.
> 
> I wanted to, but I’m not a brave man. I didn’t want to hear a polite goodbye or, worse, a that-was-fun brush off. I convinced myself it was better if I just disappeared, that losing you would hurt less if I didn’t let myself admit how much I wanted to stay.
> 
> I’m sorry.
> 
> Tony 

_Six hours later_

> I know, two emails in one day: it’s a lot. But there’s one more thing I feel I have to write before I lose my nerve and never tell you: my father is dying.
> 
> I haven’t told anyone that. It’s another thing I’m hiding from.
> 
> Writing to you makes my life feel real, and I need to start admitting that it’s real. He never wanted me to go into the restaurant business. Thought his money should buy me a better life. But then I wouldn’t have met you. I can’t imagine a life without you being better, even if you are (rightly) shutting me out. I hope before he dies I can make my father see that. I would like it if he could be proud of me just once.
> 
> I hope whatever you are doing when you’re not writing me, you’re happy. You deserve happiness, Adam. 

_Two days later_

> Adam,
> 
> I don’t know if you’re not getting my emails, or if you’re choosing not to respond. If you would rather I not write, tell me. I can stop if it bothers you, though I’d rather you just wrote back.
> 
> Yours Always, Tony. 

The last email was ten days ago. Taking a deep breath for courage, Adam hits reply. 

> Hi Tony,
> 
> New Orleans is nothing like Paris. It’s missing you for one thing. 

He erases the second sentence and tries again. 

> New Orleans is nothing like Paris. Like so many other iconic parts of this country it wants to be older than it really is. Compared to Paris, this city was built yesterday.
> 
> I’ve been shucking oysters. Less than 30,000 to go. I don’t know what comes next. When I chose my penance, a million oysters seemed like enough that I would be wiser by the end. It turns out the only significant growth I’ve had in the past two years is in calluses.
> 
> I’m sorry I didn’t respond to you. I thought Paris was goodbye, so I avoided my email. Sitting here, looking at an empty inbox and missing you felt too tragic. I couldn’t face it, not after being with you again. So, I’ve been keeping busy, avoiding the internet, and pretending that’s somehow less tragic.
> 
> I need to finish what I started here. But when I’m done, do you think there’s room in London for a washed-up Adam Jones? 

He stares at the email. It’s exactly what he’s feeling, but in stark words it suddenly feels like too much. How could Tony ever want him after everything Adam has done? Sure, Tony is attracted to Adam. Paris proved that. But attraction isn’t love and Adam has reached a place where he can admit its love he’s after. 

He deletes the last paragraph, ends with I’m sorry and I miss you too and then hits send before he loses his nerve completely. He pays for his time at the computer and steps into the warm New Orleans afternoon feeling lighter than he has in a month. He thinks he might even keep his job. Only 29,671 oysters to go and then he’ll have to make some real choices. For once, that thought isn’t terrifying. 

\---

Tony sinks into his own bed for the first night it what feels like a year. It has been a hellish week and a half. His father took a turn ten days ago and Tony spent his nights haunting the ICU and his days split between managing the hotel and placating the board - many of whom were less than optimistic about the future of the Langham under Tony’s leadership. He didn’t even have the energy left to be hurt by their lack of faith. 

His father is out of the woods for now. He’ll be in care a few more days, but the pneumonia that had him on a ventilator for days is mostly gone and Tony finally felt he could come home.

Tony falls asleep fully dressed on top of his covers and wakes only when the sun hits his face. He feels grimy and groggy and suddenly starving. He staggers more than walks to his galley kitchen and flips the kettle on before splashing some water on his face. He should shower, he will, but tea first. Tea will clear his head and make everything feel just a little less like shit.

He flips open his laptop while he waits for the water to boil. Writing to Adam has become something like a habit for him. He’s been too busy and too scared to gather his thoughts into anything worth sharing. He opens his inbox and, more from habit than hope, scans the unread emails. Between an email from Kaitlin about the schedule for next week and the minutes from the last board meeting is an email from Adam. 

Tony opens it immediately.

> Hi Tony,
> 
> New Orleans is nothing like Paris. Like so many other iconic parts of this country it wants to be older than it really is. Compared to Paris, this city was built yesterday.
> 
> I’ve been shucking oysters. Less than 30,000 to go. I don’t know what comes next. When I chose my penance, a million oysters seemed like enough that I would be wiser by the end. It turns out the only significant growth I’ve had in the past two years is in calluses.
> 
> I’m sorry I didn’t respond to you. I thought Paris was goodbye, so I avoided my email. Sitting here, looking at an empty inbox and missing you felt too tragic. I couldn’t face it, not after being with you again. So, I’ve been keeping busy, avoiding the internet, and pretending that’s somehow less tragic.
> 
> I hope you’ll keep writing, but if you don’t, I understand.
> 
> Adam

 “Idiot.” Tony mutters fondly, already knowing he will write back – probably sooner than he should. 

The kettle whistles for attention as Tony is reading Adam’s words for the third time. He gets up and pours himself a mug of tea and then returns to Adam’s words on the screen almost afraid they will have morphed into another efficient email from Kaitlin about the new server they hired last week. 

It doesn’t morph. It’s still there with all its baffling half-expressed emotions. The Adam who lives in Tony’s mind is staring at him with wide too-blue eyes full of hope and it’s suddenly all too much. Tony pushes to his feet, acting on impulse more than thought, and walks to the bathroom. A shower will help clear his head and then maybe the irrational part of him that wants to jump on a plane to New Orleans and let London’s problems sort themselves out without him will come to its senses.

The shower makes him clean, and almost clear headed. He returns to his now cold cup of tea and the baffling email in his inbox After a few moments he begins to type. As much as he wants to give in to impulse, he’s needed here. For now, at least, they have email, and Tony is determined to make the most of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am using block quotes to style the emails to try and make them stand out from the rest of the text. I don't love this, but the styling options are pretty limited on this site. If anyone has any better ideas for styling please let me know in the comments.


	2. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam finishes his penance. Tony adjusts to a life he’s not sure he really wants. And through it all, they send a lot of emails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This part is entirely emails picking up with the reply Tony was sitting down to write at the end of chapter 1. 
> 
> At this point it’s been about four years since Adam left Paris and three and a bit since he started his penance. I have not been great at tracking or marking time in this fic, but that’s the timeline I see in my head. Start With I’m Sorry spans about two years and everything that follows has happened in just a couple months. 
> 
> By my math, Adam could reasonably shuck around 1,00 oysters per day. At that rate, it would take about three years and four months to hit the million oyster target.

> Adam,
> 
> Of course I will keep writing. If you didn’t notice, I couldn’t stop myself from sending you trite little messages every few days even when I was convinced you would never be in touch again. Speaking of being in touch, did Anne Marie reach you? I haven’t heard from her since I gave her your email, but I admit to being curious.
> 
> My father is in the hospital. It’s not the end, not yet anyway. He contracted a pneumonia. I’m sure the doctors explained why this is normal, but I have learned in the last month that my memory for details flees the minute I set foot in a hospital. How is it I can remember Ms. Howard will always complain unless you sit her at table four, but can’t remember a word any doctor has said in the ten days I spent half living at the hospital?
> 
> I remember other things too. With painful, perfect clarity.
> 
> Yours, Tony

_One day later_

> You remember Ms. Howard because you’re the best maître d’ in Europe, but in the end it doesn’t matter to you if Ms. Howard sits at her favourite table or if that table is occupied and she has to sit resentfully at table five, shooting daggers at the nice couple who is just trying to enjoy their soufflé. It’s easy to be great when the stakes are low – unfair as that is. Your father, he matters. So you can’t remember what the doctor says? Fuck him. His job is to know what’s going on and why. Yours is to be there, and I know you are, probably around the clock.
> 
> Anne Marie emailed last week. She didn’t say what she wanted, just that she needed to talk. I haven’t replied. I owe everything to Jean Luc, but Anne Marie and my history is… complicated. I don’t know if I want her here, and I can’t exactly hop on another flight to Europe. If I ever run a kitchen again, I may have to do something about the rate of pay for the rest of the staff.
> 
> Any advice?

_Six hours later_

> My advice? Don’t go to war with the owners. I’ve seen that fight before, the chef always loses in the end. There are only so many rich men, and they seem to all know each other.
> 
> But to the real question: I go to therapy these days. Have I told you that? My analyst would say something infuriatingly vague about how you can’t move forward if you don’t take a step. I think you should talk to Anne Marie but do it on your terms. She isn’t the same person she was three years ago, but neither are you.

_Three days later_

> I don’t go to therapy, but I have a sponsor. Her name is Suzette and she owns a lingerie boutique not far from that dismal internet café where I first sat and typed you a pathetic little email. I haven’t told her much about you, or us, or anything that came before all the things that landed me in need of a sponsor, but I told her about Anne Marie wanting to see me and she agreed with you – unfortunately for me and my phone bill.
> 
> Blatantly ignoring good advice is one of the vices I’m trying to break away from, so I called Anne Marie yesterday. Jean Luc left me his knives.
> 
> It’s not what I expected. To be honest, I don’t know what I expected. I asked her to mail them to you. I hope you don’t mind. Will you keep them for me? One day I hope to be worthy, but I’m not there yet.

_Eight hours later_

> Anne Marie came to the Langham today to give me Jean Luc’s knives. A bit awkward as I hadn’t read your latest yet. I will hold on to them for now, although you should know you’ve always been worthy in my eyes. I hope your leaving the knives with me means you plan to visit London eventually.

_Two days later_

> I had lunch with Suzette today. I finally told her the full story about you and me and Paris. Well, not the full story (she has no more interest in my sex life than I had in telling her about it), but the important pieces. She gave me lots of probably brilliant advice. I only followed one piece through: I bought a computer.
> 
> It’s a second-hand piece of shit and my internet is barely a step above the days of dial up (do you sometimes still hear that tone in your ear when a page is slow to load or is that just me?). Suzette has a point: I can’t spend my life hiding in an internet café as if emails from you are somehow separate from the rest of my life.
> 
> I told her I was a bit worried that sitting around hoping for emails from you might consume my life. Her “doesn’t it already?” was rude but probably true. Which is Suzette in a nutshell, one day you’ll have to meet her. You couldn’t be more opposite, but I think you’ll get on. You can always bond over your Adam Jones is a dickhead stories. You both have more than enough to fill an evening.

_One day later_

> Welcome to the twenty first century! I was beginning to think New Orleans existed in a perpetual 1999 with all your dim little Internet cafes.
> 
> I sometimes feel a bit envious of that world. The novelty of email wears off surprisingly quickly when every other message in your inbox is a new “urgent” meeting or problem. Emails from you are the only thing that keeps me from just pitching my computer into the street.
> 
> Things here are less than perfect and the board has no tolerance for anything short of perfection. I’ll weather their anger because I have no other choice, but I’m spending half my life being shouted at in meetings. It almost makes me wish for the early days at Jean Luc’s which you might recall I spent being yelled at by nearly everyone.
> 
> I haven’t managed to set foot in the restaurant in almost a week. I can only hope Girard isn’t transforming it into an American-style bistro or something equally ghastly. Is it all chefs who think they’re gods at the centre of the universe, or just the ones I’ve met? 

_One day later_

> Do you remember what Jean Luc used to say? “It was God who created oysters and apples and you can’t improve recipes like that. But it is a chef’s job to try.”  Maybe Gerard had a mentor like ours.
> 
> As for me, I am so sick of oysters by now I’ll take a ghastly American-style bistro over oysters on the half shell any day of the week. Only 27,000 to go. I’m trying to savour these last weeks but it’s hard when I want so much to be done. I think I might almost be ready to live a real life, and if you don’t object, London will be one of my first stops.
> 
> Yours, Adam
> 
> PS: Are Kaitlin and “Monty” fucking yet?

_Twenty minutes later_

> I didn’t know you were so interested in Montgomery Reece’s sex life. You are a very pretty man, but I don’t think you’re his type.

_Five minutes later_

> You’re up late.

_One minute later_

> I got back from a hideous dinner with three members of the board half an hour ago and opened a very nice Sangiovese which I’m determined to finish before trying to sleep.  Have you noticed it is always the people who know nothing about how a restaurant should run who have the loudest opinions about how you should run it?

_One minute later_

> You know I don’t care about Reece’s sex life, right? Since you’re sitting in from of your computer drinking, I feel obligated to keep you company. The least you can do is repay my companionship with some salacious gossip. If not about Reece, then maybe something about you?

_Five minutes later_

> Kaitlin has been tight lipped which means either they’re shagging like rabbits or they’ve had a fabulous row and split up. I haven’t known her long enough to tell the difference. As for me, I met this American in Paris (cliché I know), and I can’t quite get him out of my mind.
> 
> We’ve only been together twice, but I’ve replayed both of our encounters so many times waking and sleeping I can almost fool myself into thinking we’ve had years of being in one another’s space, close enough to touch, to kiss, to…  But that’s all in my head. Reality is much less satisfying.
> 
> I used to think it was just temporary madness, that one day I would fall asleep and I wouldn’t dream of his blue eyes, talented fingers, or his perfectly muscled back as he walks away. But I’m afraid to say, my feelings for him have proven to be a permanent sort of affliction.
> 
> Does that sate your thirst for gossip Adam Jones?

_Simultaneously_

> I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. It wasn’t fair of me when you all but told me you’re drunk. Sleep well, Tony. Make sure you drink plenty of water. 

_Ten minutes later_

> Tony, just in case you were wondering. That American you met in Paris? Any time you think of him, you can be sure he’s thinking about you too.

_Five days later_

> My analyst says I am punishing you for my embarrassment by not emailing. It was meant to be a reprieve for you and a punishment for me. Perhaps I should move to America and shuck a million oysters to learn wisdom. I hear it is quite effective.
> 
> To your half question several emails ago: I find I do not mind the idea of you in London. In fact, it sounds quite perfect. Bear in mind, if you come here just to retrieve your knives and then try to disappear again, I may have to put one through you.
> 
> Yours, as ever, Tony

_Three days later_

> My lease is up in two months. It’s strange to think I may not need to renew it, but I feel ready in a way I haven’t since I was 16. I have all these hazy half plans that are probably better suited to a 16 year old lying about his age in Paris to try and trick a chef into training him than to a man past his prime with a whole storage unit full of regrets. Maybe one day I will share them with you just to hear you laugh. I haven’t heard you laugh in far too long. I can’t even remember what it sounds like.
> 
> How is the restaurant? Is Kaitlin still making the servers sweat? Has Reece become the toast of the town with his fancy new faux-authentic restaurant?  
> 
> How is your father?
> 
> How are you?

_Two hours later_

> My father is out of hospital and spending far too much of the time he’s supposed to be resting trying to backseat run the Belardi group from home. I had to learn to set a personalized ringtone for his calls so I can ignore them when I’m busy doing anything else. He’s bored, the man has been working sixty hours a week since he was eighteen. But also I know the board members have been bypassing me to take their concerns directly to him ever since he stepped down. I wish he would rest, for his sake, but also for mine. As long as he can’t help meddling, the board will continue to see me as a teenager who is incapable of making even basic operating decisions. Is that unforgivably selfish of me?

_Fifteen minutes later_

> You are the least selfish person I know. Which may not mean much coming from me, but you did ask.

_Ten minutes later_

> Thank you. Your opinion matters, Adam, perhaps more than it should.
> 
> To your other questions (where did all this curiosity come from anyway?):
> 
>   1. The restaurant is running well enough. Gerard is competent, but not particularly creative (no American bistro food has appeared on the menu yet – thank fuck). No one reviews us but our diners, which means we tick along on a high Google rating but we’re not attracting foodies or investors – at least not for the restaurant. The hotel, thankfully, is another story so we will continue to tick along.
>   2. Kaitlin is a goddess. If I had any sexual interest in women I might be half in love with her. She runs the front of house with brutal efficiency and perpetually perfect hair. I might have to double her salary just to ensure no one else (not even Reece) can tempt her away.
>   3. Reece is doing… very well. His investor is apparently at his wits end over the cost of everything, but Reece is gunning for his third star and if you believe Simone, he might have a shot this year.
> 

> 
> How are the oysters? 

  _The next day_

> The oysters are still as sharp edged as ever. I passed the 980,000 mark this morning. If business keeps up, my penance will be over sooner than I thought. I still don’t know if I’m wiser, but I am looking forward to what comes next and that is a feeling I haven’t had in a long time.
> 
> You know... no one has ever asked me why I chose a million oysters for penance. I guess they think they know. It’s the bottom of the kitchen hierarchy. The guy who shucks oysters doesn’t need to be any more talented than the knife he’s using to shuck them. But it wasn’t about being at the bottom - or that wasn’t all there was.
> 
> There’s a meditative quality to shucking oysters. Everything is sharp and if you don’t pay attention to the present you will get hurt. So you have to be in that moment, but you don’t have to think. It’s all muscle memory and attention to your body. And you need steady hands.
> 
> When you’re trying to stay sober (and failing) it seems impossible. And I’ve never been able to resist impossible.

_That evening_

> I can’t speak to wisdom (I’m horribly underqualified to judge anyone on wisdom these days), but you’ve changed since that night in Paris. Maybe the meditation over oysters  has something to do with it? I’m inclined to think it must.  You seem more settled than I’ve ever known you – even if you keep talking about the future like it’s a cliff you are determined to jump off, even if there might be rocks at the bottom.
> 
> My reason for not asking you about your penance is horribly selfish, I’m afraid. I told myself you would tell me when you trusted me with it, and then I held on to your silence on the subject as evidence that you were still shutting me out, even if all evidence was to the contrary. If you’re feeling ready, consider me an eager audience.
> 
> I want to know you, not just the Adam Jones the rest of the world gets to see.
> 
> Your horribly selfish pen pal, Tony.

_Two days later_

> I came up with the idea my third time trying to sober up. I was washing dishes at a local bistro (one of the ghastly American bistros you dread your Langham becoming so much), hung over from my two week chip celebration (the abrupt end of my second attempt at sobriety without support), and I realized no one noticed the tremble in my hands or that I was wearing the same clothes as the day before because any mostly sober idiot can wash dishes. If I wanted to stay sober, I needed something to do with my days that I couldn’t do when I was wrecked. I didn’t want to cook, so oysters seemed like the obvious choice and one million seemed like a lifetime’s worth.
> 
> It wasn’t a lifetime’s worth it turns out. But it gave me something to work towards and a stupid, personal, no real pressure reason not to use or drink. It’s almost funny now that I couldn’t see the real and integral reasons I needed to get and stay sober back then, but I went on for months thinking the only reason I was successfully sticking to my sobriety was my penance.
> 
> In hindsight, my NA sponsor and all the things I was too afraid to admit wanting were the real anchors that kept me from drifting backwards. But this penance has given me time to think and rest and learn a little at a time how to live with myself and all the pain and pleasure of just existing without substances numbing it all away.
> 
> I think you’re right about wisdom and oysters. All the time spent alone with my purposefully emptied mind and only mollusks for company has helped me learn something I managed to go the first almost thirty years of my life without: to live with my own imperfections.
> 
> Not sure yet how other people put up with them, but I have 18,000 oysters to go, maybe I’ll figure that out.

_The next morning_

> One can put up with almost anything for the people they love.
> 
> At least that’s what I tell myself every time I have to step into the board room and let a group of my father’s peers speak to me like I’m an errant teenager and not a 34-year-old man with seventeen years of concrete experience at every level of the service industry

_Three days later_

> Your father is lucky to have you. And it sounds like your board is full of idiots. It’s probably good I’m learning to live with imperfection, or I might be tempted to fly to London and show them where to shove their ageist shit.

_One day later_

> I have to admit I spent most of my meetings today imagining you storming in and beating Hartley over the head with a frying pan until he cried for mercy. Like many things, it makes for a wonderful fantasy, but the reality would be messy. Still, it made today more bearable, so thank you.
> 
> Gerard is on my last nerve. I think the years in Paris spoiled me. I’m not used to dealing with chefs who lack vision. His food is… fine, but it doesn’t have any flare. Some days I think I may as well let him cook cheeseburgers and potato skins. At least then he would be happy. As it stands, neither of us is happy and it’s starting to show in the staff. I had three servers quit this week and Kaitlin has been looking shifty.
> 
> If Reece steals her away you may have to come visit me in prison when you finish that penance of yours.

_One day later_

> Prison is Max’s thing, isn’t it?

_Six hours later_

> The man has no ability to control his temper. Talented fuck, but I wouldn’t want him in my kitchen.
> 
> …although he might scare Girard into the first creative thought of his life. Maybe I should see if he’s found a new place.   

_Thirty minutes later_

> Why don’t you just fire him?

_Two minutes later_

> Max? I’d have to hire him first.

_Three minutes later_

> Girard the Useless. You’ve been complaining about how terrible he is for as long as we’ve been writing. You clearly hate him, and there hasn’t been a single review of the Langham from a respectable critic in over two years.

_One minute later_

> Checking up on me, are you?

_Thirty seconds later_

> I have the internet now. Isn’t that what it’s for?

_Two minutes later_

> The problem with firing Girard is there are hundreds of chefs just like him and none like you.

_One minute later_

> Flatterer.

_Ten minutes later_

> False modesty doesn’t suit you Adam. You are an amazing chef, even if all you do these days is shuck oysters.
> 
> Maybe instead of letting Reece steal Kaitlin I should get her to try and steal him. He always had something of a flair.

_Two minutes later_

> You’re kidding, right?

_Ten minutes later_

> You’re right, his investor would be an idiot to back out now. I suppose Gerard can stay.

_Seven days later_

> I hope you’re not sulking about Reece’s success. You do remember it was you who ran off to America to shuck all the oysters and left us mere mortals to struggle on in your absence?
> 
> Seriously, Adam. I’m worried about you. I don’t want to crowd you, and I know I have no right to demand anything from you. But please just let me know you’re alright.

_Two days later_

> Tony, I’m sorry I haven’t emailed. I’ve been working doubles and mostly collapsing into bed. 4,000 to go. Yours, Adam

_Ten minutes later_

> Don’t work yourself too hard, my friend. Write when you can. I miss you.

_One week later_

> To: ChefJones@domain.com
> 
> Subject: Flight Information (New Orleans to London, Booking #826057024)
> 
> Thank you for choosing Air Travel. Below are your flight details and other useful information for your trip.
> 
> IMPORTANT: Your official Itinerary/Receipt is attached to this email. You must bring it with you to the airport for check-in and we recommend you keep a copy for your records. Please also take the time to review it as it contains the general conditions of carriage and applicable tariffs that apply to the tickets, bookings and air services detailed below, as well as baggage, dangerous goods and other important information related to your trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading! 
> 
>  
> 
> There will be at least one more piece to wrap this series up, but I expect it to be a longer piece than the others up to now, so I may be slow to post.


End file.
